


Blessed Are They

by ennui160



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Slow Burn, for dragon age at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-08-14 14:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16494125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennui160/pseuds/ennui160
Summary: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.Alfred turned the sentence over and over in his head. The Chantry loved that line. It was their favorite when dealing with mages - apostates especially. It was the grounds on which the Chantry had founded the Circles all those centuries ago. And, luckily, thinking about it was helping Alfred drown out the elf in the saddle behind him.Dragon Age crossover.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i dunno how to write words i only know how to produce pictures of england on a semi regular basis  
> too afraid to tag this as dragon age, i don't want the dragon age peeps to know people are still writing hetalia fics in 2018

 

Ser Jones,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have been directed to you by a close family friend with knowledge of my current situation, who assures me that you are a man of impeccable morals. I think you should know his son - David was his name, I think?

I can only presume how busy you must be, what with your official Circle duties and whatnot. It vexes me, then, that I must take time away from your busy schedule to ask you a favor. My son has recently presented with magical talent, and I require someone I can trust to bring him to the Circle without harm. There is no way I can make the journey myself, as I am held up with business here in Tantervale. Try as I might, I cannot bear to send little Arthur away with the local Templars - the law here is strict, and I can only imagine what they’d do to him were he in their hands.

I would be forever in your debt if you would promise him a safe and gentle journey to your Circle - Kirkwall, I’m told? I realize the way is far; it truly pains me to burden you so. However, I have the utmost faith that you and yours will take good care of him; I leave the matter in your capable hands, if you so choose.

With respect,

Lord Kirkland of Tantervale

 

* * *

 

Easy enough. Get in, get the kid, get out. Stick to the roads and everything would be just fine. Right? Easy enough compared to slogging it out in the bogs, hunting down some poor mage gone mad. Especially easy compared to listening to whatever the Knight-Corporal wanted him to do. Seriously, just how many pies did one guy need? And was it really necessary to send the nicest, coolest, smartest Templar down into the city to buy them?

Sure, Tantervale was far. A few days over land, perhaps. But here was a poor, innocent child in need of help; who _knew_ how the Templars up in Tantervale would treat him? Actually, Alfred knew. He’d seen it before. They’d have him in chains by the end of the day - earlier, if he was bitey. If they didn’t like mages in Kirkwall, they sure as sugar weren’t going to like them much more anywhere else.

And so, Alfred F. Jones, the nicest, coolest, smartest Templar in Thedas, made up his mind to babysit some poor kid all the way from Tantervale to Kirkwall. He could see it now; the Knight-Corporal’s eyes bugging out as Alfred walked back in through the Gallows courtyard, triumphant, with his newest, most loyal charge trailing inconsequentially behind him. And not a pie in sight.

Of course, there was the matter of getting his Knight-Corporal to agree to send him in the first place. It was never happening. Alfred, on top of being the nicest, coolest, smartest Templar, was also the nicest, coolest, smartest pie runner. And also they needed him to maybe behead some mages later in the week.

Luckily, neither of these things appealed to him in the slightest (the wholesale murder a bit less), and so he slipped into the stables while the rest of the Templars were at dinner and “requisitioned” a horse, supplies for a week’s journey or so, and a nice, detailed map. As soon as the pack was fastened and his gear secure, Alfred slipped into the saddle and was off.

The journey there was less uneventful than Alfred had hoped. He’d managed to scare off a few bandits as soon as they’d glimpsed his armor, and had (mostly) avoided getting hopelessly lost, although his map had gotten soaked through with rain on the second day. He’d even run into the Dalish elves once, a bit more than halfway through; they’d seen he was alone and tried to shoot his horse. Alfred made sure that they wouldn’t be a problem for the way back.

Three and a half days after his departure, he arrived in Tantervale, safe and sound, if a bit grungy.

The scale of the Kirkland household divulged the man’s status as a well-liked lord of moderate social standing. It was no humble shack, but a relatively grand structure constructed of pale brick, rising a man’s height above its equally well-decorated, yet somewhat more austere neighbors. Alfred recognized the design as Tevene; the original construct must have been at least hundreds of years old, if not thousands. He could only imagine the kind of gold Lord Kirkland was shelling out to maintain this place.

Gathering his wits about him, he straightened up and gave the door a couple firm knocks.

A couple thumps sounded from within the house; Alfred thought he made out the sound of a ladle being slammed against a counter. “Coming!” came the muffled voice of a man. The lord himself?

Footsteps approached, and, abruptly, the door swung open to reveal a slightly disheveled elf, his hair sticking up in all kinds of ways, falling almost to his eyes. An apron, newly stained with stew, was draped across the elf’s front. _The servingman_ , Alfred presumed, and relaxed a little.

“Francis, didn’t I say--” the man said directly at Alfred’s neck as he opened the door, before interrupting himself with a start and glancing upwards. Apparently he had been expecting someone shorter.

And -- damn. That hair did _not_ come down low enough to hide those _eyebrows_! Maker, they were huge.

“Hello,” Alfred said, with a winning smile. “I’m here to talk to the lord about his son?”

The elf didn’t say anything at first. His gaze flicked back down to the Templar sword emblazoned on Alfred’s breastplate, if only for a second. Then back up. Alfred knew that look in his eyes; the elven servants back in town often adopted a similar, quivering wide-eyed look when they knew they were about to be in trouble.

“He’s not home,” the elf said, and tried to close the door on him.

“Excuse me,” Alfred said, a bit more firmly, jamming his foot in the door. “You mean Lord Kirkland isn’t home, or his son?”

“They’re both not home,” was the reply. He was trying and failing to maintain eye contact.

Alfred smile faltered. “Then I’ll wait for him.”

“He won’t be back for-- a few days.”

“What? But he said--”

“The lord likes to leave on short notice. Ser.” The title was added as a hasty afterthought, with a slight bow of the head. Lord Kirkland sure didn’t shell out gold for the _good_ servants, that was for sure.

Alfred furrowed his brow. This was getting fishier by the moment. “You’re serious?”

The elf nodded, quickly.

Maker, this was hopeless. Of course things would get all bunged up at the part that mattered. Almost ready to relent, Alfred backed up a bit, resting his hands on his hips with a sigh. “I just don’t see why he’d take the time to write a letter and then--”

At that moment, a set of heavier footsteps signaled the arrival of someone else behind him.

“Hello, hello! Ser Jones, I presume?”

The elf’s eyes widened. Alfred turned to find a somewhat heavyset human man behind him, dressed quite modestly for someone he could only assume was the lord himself. Almost reminded him of the banns back home, but a little less smelly.

Alfred flashed him another winning smile; all of his smiles were winners. “Yes, messere! Lord Kirkland, right?”

“That would be me,” the lord replied. “You’ve done me a great service, ser. I’ve done nothing but spend the past few days worrying about my poor boy. I see you’ve gotten acquainted?” he intoned, at the figure standing behind Alfred in the doorway.

“What? Oh, no, the servingman just told me--”

Alfred turned back to find an expression of pure betrayal written across the elf’s features.

“Excuse me?” he said, addressing the lord before Alfred could finish his sentence, his voice reaching a dangerous octave. “ _You_ called this man? This-- Templar?”

“Arthur,” the lord said, entirely apologetic in the way only a concerned father could be. “We’ve discussed this-- your future-- and I--”

Arthur, presumably, would not let the poor man finish. “I can’t _believe_ \-- Do you even _know_ what you’ve--” he tried, cutting himself off both times with an angry huff. “I can’t believe you. I really can’t believe you.”

Alfred glanced back at the lord, suddenly feeling quite out of place. “Arthur, please, just listen--”

Arthur, who had been shifting uneasily between looking absolutely furious and looking afraid of Alfred, seemed to spontaneously come to some sort of decision. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned away, slamming the door behind him. Angry footsteps rapidly ascended the stairs inside.

“Oh dear,” said the lord.

Alfred stood there uselessly with his mouth half open for a few more moments.

“I-- that’s-- he’s your…?”

“He is my son, yes.” Now the lord just seemed plain apologetic, in the usual way.

“He’s an elf,” Alfred replied, intelligently. _And also a grown-ass adult._

“He is… adopted, yes,” the lord continued. “Oh, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy…”

 _The lord adopted an_ elf? Alfred’s eyebrow twitched. “And you didn’t tell him I was coming?”

The man bowed his head, sheepish. “I was afraid he would try to run.”

Well-- actually, he was probably right. “Alright, that’s fine. I just-- do you think I should go talk him down?”

“If he can be, ideally,” was the tired reply.

Alfred sighed. No, this wasn’t going to be easy at all.

“You know, I-- I kind of expected… a human _boy_ , you know?” The lord’s face fell. “Not to be rude,” he hastily added. Didn’t want any jilted nobility coming after his dumb ass, now.

“If it’s too difficult… I understand,” the lord said. “Perhaps I’ll look for a private tutor…”

 _Ohh no._ “W-well, see, you can’t… really… do that,” Alfred said, somewhat sheepishly. “I-- how do I put this… you see, mages outside the Circle are… apostates, right?”

The lord nodded.

“And… apostates… get hunted down by Templars… killed, if necessary…”

A look of dread immediately swept over the lord’s face, and Alfred immediately moved into damage control. “Not-- not that that would ever happen to Arthur, of course! As long as he’s in a Circle…”

“You’re sure?” Lord Kirkland looked back up at Alfred. “You’re really sure he’ll be safe there? Oh, I wonder if this is the right choice...”

Alfred tried to keep the annoyed furrow out of his brow. _Your son is an_ adult apostate _with no magical training_ , Alfred wanted to tell him. _There isn’t exactly a_ choice _to be made…_

“Trust me, Lord Kirkland,” Alfred said, smiling brightly. “I’ll make sure nobody hurts your son for the rest of his life.”

At that, the lord seemed to brighten considerably. “I-- I can’t thank you enou--”

Alfred raised a hand. “It’s no problem, messere,” he replied, extremely professionally.

Maker, this was gonna suck.

* * *

 

The Kirklands’ sitting room was almost humble in comparison to the gilded exterior; a few tasteful furs decorated the floor, while the couches themselves were expertly upholstered in an inoffensive mauve. The firepit, tended gently by the lord himself, crackled warmly beyond the table, and light from outside gently filtered in through the front windows. Alfred, of course, noticed nor appreciated none of it.

The lord had insisted on serving him tea, despite whatever discomfort Alfred had with being served tea by someone worth his own weight in gold, and so Alfred sat in awkward silence, giving his cup a hesitant sip every few minutes, once he’d forgotten how bad the last sip had been.

Just as Alfred was about to set down his nearly full cup and announce that he was going up to seek Arthur out, a door opened and closed on the upper floor. Light footfalls followed; both Alfred and Lord Kirkland sat up straight as Arthur descended the stairs.

“Father,” Arthur said, immediately fixing the lord with a stern gaze, rounding the last step to face him full-on. “I don’t understand why you’ve called the Templars when I’m not even a mage. You’ve known me since I was a boy. Since when have I been able to use magic?”

 _Boy oh boy_. _That really the angle you’re gonna take?_ Alfred held his tongue as Arthur’s father began to speak.

“Arthur,” he began, as if he was about to impart some bad news on the poor guy. “I want you to understand… I wish I could believe you.”

Arthur’s eyebrow quivered.

“You know I only worry about you,” the lord continued. “There isn’t a lot about you that your dear papa doesn’t notice.”

“ _Father_ ,” Arthur intoned, slightly strained, as he glanced over at Alfred in the stranger corner.

The man didn’t even bat an eye. “I tried to tell myself it was just coincidence, at first. A singed curtain here, a burned carpet there.” He shook his head. “The coincidences added up, my boy.”

“You-- you can’t seriously be trying to get me sent away - _forever_ \- on some _coincidences?_ ” Arthur gripped the hem of his tunic. _To still his shaking hands_ , Alfred thought.

“I saw you make sparks from your hands last week,” his father said, solemn. “When you got angry at how the meat burned.”

Arthur’s grip turned white-knuckled. Alfred mimed another sip from his teacup.

His father was nonplussed. “Next year, you turn twenty-four.”

Alfred tried not to look extremely surprised by this information; the guy barely looked a day over 16. Then again, elves just kind of… looked like that.

“...And?” Arthur didn’t seem to like where this was going.

“I only want you to be safe, happy, and occupied,” he said, setting down his cup. “Your apprenticeships have all fallen through. Higher society refuses to associate with you. I have looked - and failed - for years, to secure you a suitable bride.”

Arthur looked about ready to melt through the floor. “Yes, they all show up, find out I’m an elf, and leave. An exemplary failure, I know. Really, father, is this necessary? _In front of the Templar?_ ”

Lord Kirkland only appeared sorrowful. “I’m sorry, my son. But I see no other way to secure your future than to send you away to a place where you might finally find purpose. As much as it pains me to admit, that place is not here.” He closed his eyes. “The failure is me, not you.”

A long silence fell over the room. Alfred pressed his lips together, awkwardly.

“In front of the _Templar_ , father?” Arthur implored, again, weakly.

The lord looked as if he was about to speak again, which prompted Alfred to stand up at once, the clatter of all his armor pieces smacking together interrupting whatever the man had to say.

“Yeah! Um…” Arthur was looking at Alfred now, out of the corner of his eye, like he wanted to pretend he wasn’t there. Alfred thought to spare the rest of the guy’s shattered dignity. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“No, no, ser,” Arthur’s father said, quickly. “We’re about done here.”

Arthur immediately piped up. “We are _not_ \--”

“Arthur!” The sudden shout shut the both of them up, especially Alfred, who was about to insist on leaving again. “Please.”

His father looked exhausted. Alfred could see how difficult the decision had to have been for him. It seemed like Arthur had noticed, too, because for once, the elf said nothing, electing to stare holes into the ground instead.

“I will help pack Arthur’s things,” Lord Kirkland said, standing.

“Oh-- you don’t have to. New apprentices aren’t supposed to bring anything from home.” Out of the corner of Alfred’s eye, he saw Arthur’s shoulders sag.

“Nothing at all?” Even the lord seemed a bit sad.

“Er… they’re not… _supposed_ to…” Alfred spared Arthur a brief glance. “But... I guess it’s okay if it’s just something small…”

The lord smiled warmly at Alfred in a way that almost made lying out his ass worth it. “You have my deepest thanks, Ser Jones.”

“I-- don’t mention it,” Alfred said, rubbing his neck.

Arthur, who had been silent for the duration, had turned away, towards the stairs. “...I need time,” was all he said, after a long pause.

“I have to get back soon,” Alfred said, quickly. “I mean, the Knight-Corporal probably already has it out for me--”

“I really don’t care,” Arthur replied, before heading back up the stairs at a brisk pace, leaving Alfred and his father standing wordlessly in the sitting room once more.

Arthur’s father turned towards Alfred like he wanted to ask him for something.

“One more day… wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Alfred gritted his teeth, but he smiled with his lips.

“No, I guess not.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

Alfred turned the sentence over and over in his head. The Chantry loved that line. It was their favorite when dealing with mages - apostates especially. It was the grounds on which the Chantry had founded the Circles all those centuries ago. And, luckily, thinking about it was helping Alfred drown out the elf in the saddle behind him.

“--Hello? Are you listening to me?” Arthur groused. “I asked you a question.”

“Mmhmm.” Alfred twirled the lead in his hands absentmindedly. Was it magic, or _mages_? He let his mind wander; anything to escape the apostate’s nagging.

They’d departed Tantervale first thing in the morning, about 5 hours prior. Alfred had practically pried the poor guy out of the bear hug his father insisted on giving him, something he felt no small amount of guilt for. Mage or not, it was clear Arthur’s father loved him dearly, and was not keen on the idea of never seeing his son again. But it wasn’t as if Arthur _could_ stay. An untrained mage was a catastrophe waiting to happen; it was far too late to send a mage to the Circle once they had unwittingly murdered their friends, family, and anyone in a 50-meter radius. This was the only solution that promised relative happiness for everyone. That was what the Chantry taught him.

“I _said_ ,” Arthur began again. “When are we going to get there?”

When Alfred didn’t bother answering, Arthur scowled. “Stupid shem.”

Alfred stopped, and the horse obediently stopped behind him. “Excuse me?” he said, turning to address Arthur.

“Ha. So you are listening.”

“What did you just call me?”

“A stupid shem. Because that’s what you are.” He sure was putting on a whole lot of bluster for someone who had hid from Alfred the entire day before.

Alfred frowned. He'd heard the elven insult before, but never directed at him. “You know, I really would appreciate it if you didn’t--”

At that, Arthur fixed Alfred with a glare dripping with murderous intent.

“Alright, fine, call me whatever you want,” Alfred muttered. He’d sworn Arthur’s safety to his father; he wasn’t about to start a fight the day after. As much as he wanted to.

“Hmph. You Chantry folk are all the same.” Arthur folded his arms, somewhat vindicated. “Full of bark, and no bite.”

Alfred sighed. New apprentices were so… trying. He thanked his lucky stars that they mostly had him working the _real_ mages and not the entitled little brats on the lower floors.

“So. When _are_ we going to get there?”

“Huh?” Alfred thought about it for a moment. “Well, since we have one horse and you didn’t want to ride with me --”

“It’s not good for the horse,” Arthur interjected.

“Right. Well, that means I’m walking. So… five days, maybe more?” Maker, the Knight-Corporal was going to have his head.

“ _Five days_?” Arthur cried. He seemed to be even less pleased with this than Alfred was.

“That’s right. So you better learn to play nice, or we’ll be stuck out here for even longer,” Alfred replied, wagging his finger in a poor imitation of a kindly old schoolteacher.

The way Arthur groaned and slumped back into the saddle told Alfred that even the idea was exhausting. Now that was something Alfred could agree with.

* * *

 

Small talk was made, occasionally, when both parties could muster the energy to tolerate it.

“So,” Alfred began, a few miles down the road. “I’m curious.”

A short grunt from Arthur told Alfred that he was listening.

Alfred pressed on. “How is it that an elf gets adopted into one of the foremost noble families in Tantervale? I feel like there’s an interesting story there.”

A moment passed. Alfred began to wonder if he’d struck a nerve. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna--”

“...You give the Kirklands far too much credit,” Arthur finally said. “My father is a well-known eccentric.”

It hadn’t been well-known to Alfred. “Really?”

“Yes. The day he took me home, he fired every elven servant in the house. He was worried I would grow up thinking I was one of them.” Arthur paused. “Like that would happen.”

 _So that’s why the lord was serving his own tea,_ Alfred thought. “Then… why did he adopt you in the first place?” he asked.

“Do all you Templars make it a habit of prying into your charges’ personal lives?” Arthur asked back, pointedly.

“I-- not _all_ of us--”

“And I suppose I’m supposed to believe this is just friendly curiosity?” Arthur’s tone was scathing now. “You’re my jailor. Don’t think I’ll forget so easily.”

“You don’t _have_ to tell me if you don’t want to,” Alfred muttered. “Sheesh.”

“What?” Arthur replied. “I can’t hear you all the way in front. There’s a horse in the way.”

“I said-- ...y’know what, nevermind.”

Arthur didn’t say anything in response. The only sounds were the dull _thump_ of hooves against packed dirt and the clatter of Alfred’s armor with every step he took. A minute passed in relative peace; Arthur took a moment to readjust his seat in the saddle, and didn’t even complain about it.

“If you _really_ want to know about me,” Arthur piped up, breaking the silence, “then I want you to tell me about yourself first. That way we’ll be even.”

Alfred didn’t especially want to know, but anything to break the monotony and wasn’t an insult was welcome. “Sure, ask away.”

“How did you become a Templar?”

“I left home, joined the Chantry, went to Templar camp, and drank a funny potion when I turned eighteen. Boom, Templar.” Alfred shrugged. “Guess you’re not asking about that, though. My dad was a Templar.”

“So it runs in the family,” Arthur replied. “Funny. I couldn’t come up with any reason why anyone would willingly join them.”

“Yeah, that’s why there’s thousands of Templars all over Thedas, and even more in training,” Alfred replied sarcastically. “What’s your problem with the Templars? They do good work.”

“Not commenting on what they do. Just can’t imagine anyone finding that kind of life interesting,” Arthur said, folding his arms. “The Templars in Tantervale have all got sticks up their arses. You do _anything_ wrong, there’s a Templar breathing down your neck, and two more fetching the city guard. Then they listen to the Templars rat you out, and you get thrown in the dungeon for a week or two if they think it’s bad enough. Goes for nobles too.”

“You sound like you’ve had a run in,” Alfred said, turning his head back slightly to give Arthur a cheeky look.

“Oh, everyone has,” Arthur said, matter-of-factly. “Anyone who hasn’t is either a Chantry sister or is paying off the guards. Or both, I don’t know.”

“Right. Sooo, what’d you do?”

Arthur sniffed. “Stole fruit off the back of a merchant’s cart when I was twelve. I didn’t know you had to pay.”

Alfred… had been expecting a less wholesome answer. “Oh. Well, okay.”

“They wanted to throw me in the alienage, you know,” Arthur continued. “They thought I was some elf’s bastard kid. Imagine their faces when my father showed up. Still got locked up for a day or two to teach me a lesson, but it was worth it.”

“Well,” Alfred said, a bit worried that Arthur wasn’t going to stop talking about this topic, “the Templars in Kirkwall aren’t like that.”

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose you’d know.”

“I _do_ know,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, they’re strict with the mages when they have to be, and they assist the city guard when necessary. But the mages are usually alright, and the city guard does fine without them.”

“Oh, so it’s ‘they’ now,” Arthur mused, setting his hands on the saddle horn in front of him. “You _are_ a Templar from Kirkwall, aren’t you?”

Alfred flinched. “I mean-- yeah!” _I just don’t get called on to do anything interesting… ever,_ he thought to himself, begrudgingly.

“I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Arthur added, amused. “You have something else to say to me?”

This damn elf was too clever. The Templars weren’t going to like that. “Alright, alright. Storytime’s over,” Alfred announced, at which Arthur huffed and folded his arms again, sulking. Thankfully, he didn’t press the topic.

Small talk was helping, at least. Keeping Arthur on a topic he wanted to talk about - which was a lot, apparently - was keeping him from nagging at Alfred for every little thing, and in turn, was keeping Alfred sane.

Of course, another mile down the road, Alfred tripped on an exposed root and startled the horse, and the nagging began anew, with increased vigor.

* * *

 

By the third day, Arthur had worn himself out of the pompous act, and was only complaining about reasonable things, like hunger or thirst. Arthur _was_ Alfred’s charge, now; he wasn’t about to deny the man a drink. But the sun was getting low, and the light filtering through the treetops was getting thin. Alfred spotted a small alcove under an earthen ledge, and suggested they settle into camp for the night. A sleepy-looking Arthur readily agreed.

Alfred tossed Arthur a couple pieces of jerky over the bedroll he’d set up for him. “Dinner,” he said, bracing himself for the complaints to come.

Instead, Arthur grunted in what Alfred could only assume was gratitude, and ripped off a chunk with his teeth, plopping down onto the bedroll with a huff.

“Damn, no bitching? You really are tired,” Alfred joked, without any real malice behind the words.

“Hush, you,” Arthur replied. “I’m not tired. Well, a little,” he mused, chewing on his piece of jerky. “Just thinking.”

“Uh huh. About what?” Alfred unfastened his bedroll from the pack, and set about tossing it on the ground.

“None of your business, Templar.”

“Ohh, okay,” Alfred replied, playing along. “Very secret apostate stuff, huh?”

Arthur’s only reply was another humorless grunt. Then the only sound was the shuffling of Alfred’s bedroll as he straightened out the fabric.

Alfred had been on a few retrievals before. Mostly young kids; magic tended to manifest between the ages of 6 and 12, and at that age, the appropriate reaction to being ripped from your home with none of your belongings, never to see your family again, was generally waterworks, which always made Alfred feel like crap. But they tended to calm down after a day or so; then the melancholy set in, which was worse, because then it got really, _really_ quiet. Alfred supposed even adult apostates weren’t immune; it seemed Arthur had had a good relation with his adoptive father, despite their obvious differences. The reality of the situation was probably setting in.

“So. Have any questions about Circle life for me?” Alfred asked, which made Arthur look up. “I mean, if you do, now’s the time to ask.”

“I…” Arthur seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Alfred noticed he’d only eaten a small piece of his jerky. “No, not really.”

“Nothing?” Arthur shook his head. “Alright, suit yourself.” Alfred went back to rummaging through the pack, checking if he’d missed anything.

His hand hit upon something unfamiliar, made of leather. “Oh,” Alfred said, pulling out a well-loved leather bag. “Here, your stuff.” He tossed it over to Arthur, who caught it in his lap.

“Thanks,” Arthur mumbled, holding his remaining piece of jerky in his mouth as he opened it up and rummaged inside. It wasn’t a big bag by any means; enough to fit a couple books, or a large coinpurse, perhaps. That was all Alfred had let him bring; anything bigger would be harder to hide from the other Templars, and then they would both be in trouble.

Arthur seemed to stare inside for a moment, holding still, before he closed it back up and set it aside. “...Hey. I do have a question for you.”

“Ask away, my guy.”

“I heard that mages aren’t let out of the Circle once they’re in,” Arthur said, looking at Alfred with an upwards flick of the eyes. “That the Circle is a mage prison.”

Alfred sat down and began the work of undoing the belts on all his armor. “Who told you that?”

“You hear things around town,” Arthur said. “There’s no Circle in Tantervale, but there is one in Hasmal, and it’s not far. I hear they only let the mages out on errands, and that they’re watched over by Templars at all times otherwise.”

Alfred whistled. No wonder Arthur hadn’t seemed keen on the idea. “Well, the apprentices aren’t allowed out, yeah… but that’s because they haven’t proved their skill yet. Untrained magic is dangerous, right? Demons and stuff. So, after you prove yourself, you become a full-fledged mage. You get to move to the nice rooms upstairs and you can ask for permission to go into town for research, jobs…” Alfred left off the fact that requests to leave rarely got approved nowadays.

Arthur frowned. It seemed that still wasn’t very good.

“I’m sure the Templars won’t bother you too much when you’re there. I haven’t tied you up yet or anything, have I?” The gauntlets came off, and were placed on the bedroll next to him.

“No. But you _are_ keeping me from using any magic, which you wouldn't have done if you weren't keeping the possibility open.” Arthur opened and closed one of his hands, his gaze fixed on his palm. “It just doesn’t work. Strange…”

Alfred stopped, and narrowed his eyes slightly over his pauldron. “What, you tried?”

Arthur scoffed. “I didn’t _have_ to try. You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Alfred watched Arthur a moment longer, before looking away to unfasten a buckle, a tinge of suspicion in his body language. The new charges didn’t _usually_ notice… but Arthur had likely had the better part of a decade to get used to his gift. Mages were seldom able to control their talent for so long, let alone hide it. The fact that he and his household had not yet been destroyed in some magical disaster was enough to attest to… something, Alfred didn’t know what.

After a moment, Alfred finally spoke. “...I couldn’t let you practice magic out here, in the woods, with no training. Attracts demons. We’d both be in trouble then, you especially.”

“That what the Chantry tells you?”

“It’s the truth,” Alfred asserted. “You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of mages, possessed, burning down their whole village and everyone in it. They never come back from possession, you know. They become monsters - even their bodies change. The only mercy for them is death.”

Arthur pursed his lips, but was otherwise silent.

“I’ve seen it,” Alfred added. “It’s true.”

Arthur pulled a tiny piece of jerky off with his teeth, and chewed it thoughtfully, but still said nothing. When it was clear Alfred wasn’t going to get a response, he glanced away uncomfortably, starting again on his pauldron buckles. A light evening breeze swept through the trees and Alfred shivered; he was starting to regret not bothering to look for firewood…

A long silence passed. Arthur swallowed his piece and sat up straight, making Alfred look back up.

“...So,” he said. “Tell me, how does a mage prove themselves in the Circle, exactly? I can’t imagine it’s easy.”

“Huh? Oh. The Harrowing,” Alfred said, setting one of his pauldrons aside. At the look on Arthur’s face, Alfred snorted. “I know. Terrible name, right?”

“What’s the Harrowing?” Arthur asked.

“Can’t say,” Alfred replied. “Sorry. It’s the rules. They tell you when they bring you in to do it.”

“And when will they bring me in?”

Alfred suspected Arthur wasn’t gonna like this. “Can’t… say that either. The enchanters decide when you’re ready. Then they tell you.”

Predictably, Arthur crinkled up his nose. “Doesn’t sound very helpful if it’s some sort of test.”

“You can call it that,” Alfred replied, absentmindedly. The breastplate came off, and he gently placed it with the rest of his armor.

“So then apprentices don’t get let out at all? And they have no idea when they’ll ever be let out again?”

 _If they’ll ever be let out again,_ Alfred’s brain unhelpfully supplied. “Yeah, I guess.”

Arthur didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. His last piece of jerky remained uneaten. “That blows.”

“Eh,” Alfred replied, more focused on his gauntlet buckle. “You’ll get used to it. I don’t usually see the apprentices complain. Too busy studying.”

A short pause. “Do you deal with apprentices much?”

Dang it, he got him. “Uh… actually, not that much.”

“Why not?”

“They like assigning me to Harrowings and guarding the older mages instead,” Alfred said. _And buying pies._

“Better or worse than watching apprentices, you think?” Arthur asked, a hand on his cheek, the hint of a wry smile on his lips.

“I--” Alfred made a face. “Hmm. That’s a good question. I don’t know. I haven’t actually dealt with the apprentices much. I’ve only been a real Templar for a year,” he said, out loud, before he could stop himself.

“A year?” Arthur asked, suddenly incredulous. He sat up straight again. “Wait. You’re… you’re nineteen?”

“Uh, yeah, just turned, why?”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “Nineteen. Damn.”

“Templars don’t like it when you say damn,” Alfred grunted, slipping off the last of his armor.

“Speaking from experience?” Arthur asked. Alfred snorted, shaking his head at the ground. When he looked back up, Arthur had a half smile on his face, although he seemed to realize it at the same time and immediately went back to stubbornly staring at the hem of his bedroll.

Alfred smiled to himself, a little. Cheering up the little ones was pretty easy. You talked to them about all the cool magic they were going to learn to do, maybe showed them a fun templar trick or two, and they’d forget all about how much they missed their mommies. It was something Alfred had made a point to do whenever he was lucky enough to be assigned to a retrieval. He still didn’t know if Arthur had really been brooding or if that was just his natural state, but whichever it was, it seemed that Arthur wasn’t _all_ hate and sarcasm on the inside. That was good, probably. It meant Alfred didn't have to do more worrying than was strictly necessary.

When the sun finally dipped below the treetops and it all got dark, Alfred peered over to Arthur’s bedroll, where he was already out like a light. Silently, the way they’d taught him, he strengthened the anti-magic wards around Arthur’s body - enough to last the night. Then, he crept into his bedroll, and slept soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H-hewwo...  
> It's all dialogue again...


	3. Chapter 3

A warm fire crackled in the hearth; the heat seemed to tickle at the back of Arthur’s neck, even as cold air flowed past. The door was open, and a figure stood beyond the threshold. Arthur couldn’t quite make out its face, but he had opened up anyway, hadn’t he?

“Hello,” it said, and bowed its head slightly. “I’ve a question for you about a package, messere.”

“I wasn’t expecting any packages,” Arthur replied, standing there with one hand on the door. “Who sent you?”

“It’s very important, messere,” the figure insisted, leaning forward, as if sharing a dirty secret. “The comte sent this to his girl, you see.”

Arthur furrowed his brow. “The comte? Bonnefoy?” A minor pause. “His girl, you said?”

“Yes, yes, Bonnefoy!” It ran a hand over the parcel in its arms; Arthur hadn’t seen it there until that moment. “He told me to get this to her posthaste. Very important, he said! Valuable, too! He wouldn’t let me look inside for the life of me.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Arthur asked, entirely unamused. “Take it to the  _girl_.”

“That’s just the problem! He simply failed to tell me where she lives. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

Arthur continued to stare impassively. “Comte Bonnefoy has many girls. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“O-of course,” it stammered. “It’s… er, Julia.”

 _Julia?_ That _Julia?_ Arthur’s irritation grew stronger. “I don’t know her.”

“I’m sure if you just thought for a moment--”

“No thank you,” Arthur replied without missing a beat. “Take it back to Bonnefoy.”

At that, Arthur made to close the door. The figure jumped. “W-wait! Why don’t you take the package yourself?”

Arthur paused, though his expression remained unimpressed as ever. “Why would I do that?”

“I won’t be seeing the comte for quite a while,” it said, hurriedly. “If you took it, you could give it to him the next time you see him!”

 _Along with a piece of my damn mind?_  Arthur sighed. “Fine.”

Finally, the figure seemed to relax. “Yes, yes. Very good. The comte will be happy, I’m sure.”

Arthur made sure to look as displeased as possible as he held out a hand for the parcel.

“Oh, no no. You’ll have to sign. Regulations and such.” It bowed its head again, almost apologetic. “It will be very quick. If you’ll just  _let me in_ , I could find a pen, or...”

Arthur blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “Ha ha. Very clever.”

The figure seemed to frown. “What’s so funny?”

He leaned against the door, a wry smile upon his lips. “Almost got me that time,” he replied, almost amused. “You need to change your wording. It gives you away.”

At that, it pulled away from the door, scowling. The parcel was gone. Before Arthur’s eyes, the shape seemed to twist and churn, flowing freely from one form to the next. Arthur merely stepped back, courteously, as the demon took its true form before him.

It was a giant, fleshy thing with a terrible gaping maw for a face, its limbs far too long for its gangly body, its fingers grasping jealously at the souls of the living. Once, Arthur had been terrified of these demons most of all; dreams like these had too often been nightmares as a child, ones that he’d wake screaming from. Now, it merely left a pit of unease in Arthur’s stomach, and nothing more. Life’s little successes, he supposed.

“ _I almost had you,_ ” the thing growled, spittle dripping from its open jaws.

“I’m very proud of you,” Arthur replied, an eyebrow raised. “It’s been quite a while. Any particular reason you’ve come to bother me again?”

“ _I merely seek opportunity,_ ” it replied, its voice a low, unnatural sound. “ _Your weakness calls to me… like siren song. Your journey tires you. Your guards grow thin._ ”

“What, worried about me?” Arthur said, one hand on the doorknob. “I’m doing fine, thank you very much.”

“ _One of these days, Arthur,_ ” was all it rasped in reply, scratching one long spindly hand along the masonry. “ _I_ will _see the world of the living through your eyes. And I will savor every waking moment of what you do not._ ”

There were goosebumps on Arthur’s arms. He kept eye contact with the creature’s face, though the sight itself chilled the blood in his veins.

“Very good,” Arthur said. “Goodbye.”

And he slammed the door shut.

* * *

 

When Arthur finally opened his eyes, it was already morning, the early light filtering in through the trees. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up blearily.

“Morning,” came Alfred’s voice, from in the direction of where they’d tied up the horse. “Sleep well? You were snoring all night.”

“...You could say that,” Arthur mumbled, still drowsy before his brain processed Alfred’s last sentence. “...Wait. Really?”

“Nah. Just a little bit.” Alfred chuckled to himself as he secured his bedroll to the horse’s back. “Here, bring me your bedroll and I’ll tie it up too.”

Arthur crept to his feet, stretched, and picked up the bedroll by the corners, rolling it into a crude bundle with his foot. His actions were purely mechanical despite their practiced ease; his mind was elsewhere, lost in thought.

Mages didn’t dream like ordinary people. Arthur knew that much; it was the first lesson he’d ever learned. When everyone else went to sleep, their minds would wander the Fade, the metaphysical realm, a surreal place where thoughts and desires were sufficient to shape reality. Then they would wake, and though they might remember bits and pieces of what they’d experienced, these memories would fade quickly, and be readily discarded. Mages, on the other hand, visited the Fade on a higher level when they dreamed; they remained fully aware, on the most part, of who they were and what they were doing, and would remember quite clearly what they had experienced, for better or for worse.

The second lesson Arthur had ever learned was that the Fade was full of demons, and that the rest of his life would be spent defending himself against them.

Demons, by their nature, wanted nothing more than to see the waking world for themselves. Mages were simply the easiest medium with which to do so; a soul with a readily-tapped connection to the other side, a vessel with its mouth wide open. Arthur, at times, had wished desperately to be normal, to go one night in peace without having to wonder if he’d be visited again as he slept. These dreams had been much more common for him, once. Luckily, he’d learned to make himself a less attractive target rather quickly, and the nightmares had decreased in turn.

But if they were going to start increasing again…? He’d surely be using more magic at the Circle. And Alfred was right - magic attracted demons like flies to honey. The thought itself was unpleasant, and Arthur did the best to push it away from the front of his mind.

Betraying nothing, Arthur tossed his rolled-up bedroll to Alfred, along with his little leather bag. “Here you go.”

Alfred caught it with a grunt, began to work at fastening it with the rest of their stuff. Arthur stood by, his arms folded loosely as he watched.

“Alright, all good,” Alfred said to himself. “Let’s hit the road, yeah?”

When Arthur didn’t immediately respond, Alfred turned. “Hello?”

Arthur blinked. He had been thinking about how long it had been since he’d slept in a bedroll. “Yeah?”

Alfred gave him a look. “You alright? Not still asleep, are you?”

Arthur shot him a little frown in reply. “I’m awake, thank you very much.”

That reply seemed to satisfy Alfred, who laughed, and moved aside to let Arthur on the horse’s back.

They crept along the road at the slow pace they had kept for the last couple days; Alfred had estimated earlier that they would come upon a small village they could stop at around the third day in, which Arthur was thankful for. He was starting to feel rather grimy; his fringe had clumped up with dirt and grease, and would stick to his forehead if it weren’t for the breeze.

It was unreal, Arthur thought, how Alfred had kept diligently walking the whole way, with minimal rest and breaks to be had. True, the terrain wasn’t particularly difficult, but the distance had been considerable. If Arthur had been in his place, his feet would have been bleeding in 10 different places by now. He hadn’t walked this far in his life-- well, not since…

“Hey,” Arthur said, at the back of Alfred’s head. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Huh? Me?” Alfred laughed. “Naw, no way.”

“You’re not just saying that to seem tough, are you? Because you’ve walked Maker knows how many miles in the last two days--”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Check it out.” Alfred flexed a bit with his free arm before shooting Arthur a cheeky look. “Unless you’re about to let me back on my horse, that is?”

Arthur frowned. “I told you it’s bad for the horse. Poor thing already has to walk this far as it is.”

“It’s a Templar horse, they’re trained for this.” Alfred yawned. “You’re very worried about me today.”

“Not in the slightest,” Arthur muttered. He abhorred the insinuation that he _cared_ at all about his captor; he was, after all, the one keeping him here.

“Oh. Okay.” Alfred seemed to take it in stride, to his credit. Arthur’s frown only deepened.

“You can get on for a few miles if you want,” Arthur said, at length, his arms folded stubbornly across his front. “I’ll ride again when I feel tired.”

“What, really?” Alfred turned and beamed at him. “How nice of you!”

“In your dreams, Templar,” Arthur replied gruffly. “I just need to stretch my legs a bit.”

Alfred stopped the horse and laughed, which only made Arthur gripe further, as if intent on proving that he cared about no one. But, true to his word, he stepped down from the saddle, dusting his tunic off as Alfred mounted, reins in hand. When Alfred didn’t immediately begin moving, Arthur gestured forward with a hand.

“You can go ahead. I’ll walk beside.”

Alfred pursed his lips. “This isn’t an escape attempt, is it? I mean… not that I’d hurt you or anything, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you--”

“No, you moron! I just didn’t want to hinder your pace!” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “You Templars are all such control freaks, I swear.”

“It’s all in the job description,” Alfred replied, with a crooked grin.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and Alfred set out, keeping the same walking pace as he had before so that Arthur wouldn’t fall too far behind. Arthur knew Alfred was doing it for him; he just didn’t know whether to be grateful or offended about it. Perhaps both, at the same time. That seemed like a great idea.

“So. Question time. You got a problem with the Chantry or something?” Alfred asked, tilting his head a bit to the side to glance at Arthur.

Arthur frowned, looking back up. “No? Well, not in public. What gave you that idea?”

“Well, there is the fact that you keep calling me ‘Templar’ like it’s an insult,” Alfred replied. “And only when you’re mad at me, too.”

“Hmph.” Arthur folded his arms again, without noticing he was doing it. His arms were cold. “The Chantry and the Order are two different things, as you’re well aware. I can dislike one and not the other.”

“The Order is the martial arm of the Chantry. They  _are_ related, you know. If the Chantry has ever done anything to you, I want to know what it is.”

Arthur gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright, you asked for it.”

“Asked for wha--”

“I have no problems with the faith in general,” Arthur began, cutting him off. “I was raised from a young age in an Andrastian household, in a city governed by proper Chantry law, where, though I was treated with prejudice, the Chantry welcomed me with open arms despite the unwillingness of many of my neighbors to do so. In terms of acts of charity and goodwill, I believe that the Chantry leads the charge overall, and is an overwhelming force for good. I may take issue with some of the decisions made by those at its seat of governance, and perhaps even those made by its proprietary orders, such as the Templar Order, but you may rest assured that I am no elven heretic hiding in the brush, waiting to ambush good Andrastian travelers with a knife on a stick, screaming about Elgar'nan or Andruil or what have you.” He immediately took a deep breath. “Is that  _good enough_  for you?”

“I--”

“ _And,_ for the record, I’m not just calling you ‘Templar’ because I’m angry with you. Even when I am.” Arthur huffed. “I just never caught your name.”

A long, uncomfortable pause followed. Alfred’s jaw hung agape as he tried to think of something he could possibly say.

“...It’s Alfred,” he replied, dumbfounded.

“Alright. I’m Arthur. There, now we’ve been introduced.”

At that, Alfred snorted. “Well. Alright then. Nice to meet you.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Arthur replied, though the words carried little bite.

“It is reassuring, you know,” Alfred continued, looking back at Arthur with a good-natured expression. “I was worried you were unhappy with the Chantry for real. Like you had some personal vendetta with the faith or something.”

“Or something,” Arthur muttered. “I see no problem with having faith.”

“That’s a good attitude to have,” Alfred said in chipper reply. “I think you’ll do well at the Circle.”

Alfred’s words didn’t reassure Arthur in the slightest. But before he could open his mouth and say something to that effect, his ears picked up on a soft rustle behind him, in the bushes. He glanced back, quizzical. A deer, maybe? He stopped in his tracks, one foot slightly ahead of the other, as he tried to figure out what the noise could have been.

Alfred was methodically proceeding ahead, unaware that Arthur was no longer following. The dull sound of the horse’s footsteps grew slightly quieter as Alfred moved on, and Arthur tried to take the opportunity to listen more closely. But whatever Arthur had heard didn’t move again. Figuring it had just been an animal, Arthur turned back to the road and did a half-run, half-skip back to Alfred’s side.

The pace of Arthur’s footsteps alerted Alfred to the fact that he’d been hanging back. He turned, stopping the horse. “What’s up? Can’t keep up? I can slow down, if you want.”

“No,” Arthur replied, panting slightly, which he realized didn’t help his case in the slightest. “I just heard something. Sounded like--”

Another rustle, from the left. Arthur paused.

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Arthur knew he’d heard it too. He held his breath.

With luck, it would just be animals. Little forest animals. There had been quite a few of them already; Arthur had seen a nug or two, and he’d spotted a rabbit in the underbrush a few miles back. A cute little squirrel or something would come running out from under the leaves, and they’d both have a good laugh and continue on their way.

A nagging presence in the back of Arthur’s mind, the one that still had him itching to scramble up the nearest tree, already knew, though, that the sound had been far too quiet and controlled to just be another little forest animal.

Arthur glanced up at Alfred without moving his head - he’d frozen on the spot without thinking. The Templar was relaxed in posture, his expression inscrutable - but his eyes were fixed firmly on some spot near the edge of the brush, one hand resting, ready, upon the grip of his sword. In that moment, Arthur suddenly realized that he was quite woefully undefended. The palms of his hands were cold - freezing, even; he cursed himself mentally, grabbing one wrist with his other hand, controlling his breathing in an attempt to anchor himself somewhere in reality. Once he was sure he wasn’t about to try and encase his own hands in ice, he strained his ears again, and listened.

For a moment, the only sounds was the rustle of leaves, stirred in the cool morning breeze. A bird chirped in a tree nearby, and Arthur nearly jumped out of his own boots. But he stopped himself; he gripped his wrist even tighter, and willed himself to be steady, the way he’d been taught.

And, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, another sound, muffled, came to Arthur through the underbrush. A wooden click; a hollow, dragging noise. A sound akin to leather being stretched out very, very carefully…

Arthur whipped his head around the exact moment an arrow loosed itself from the bush and zipped inches past his ear.

He stumbled back with a startled cry, his heart racing in his chest. Before Arthur could even make three steps back, Alfred had vaulted from the horse’s back and assumed a defensive position in front of him, his shield presented forward, his sword held out to the side. “Show yourself!” he shouted.

As soon as Arthur had recovered from the shock, he immediately began to analyze the situation. The arrow had embedded itself into the tree behind him, but by the sound of it, not very far, and a quick glance confirmed his suspicions. A shortbow, likely of light construction, and an arrow with fabric wrapped under the fletching in a familiar, telltale pattern…

Arthur’s hands were freezing again.

Slowly, from the undergrowth, a figure - a man - rose slowly to his feet. He held a bow, trained carefully upon Alfred, half-drawn. Intricately woven leather strips adorned his arms and legs; his chest was clad in an expertly woven tunic, light mail visible under the fabric, and his long brown hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail. Elaborate, twisting tattoos traced their way across the man’s forehead, down his cheekbones, and around his ears - ones that ended in distinctly elven points.

Alfred hadn’t noticed how Arthur had broken into a cold sweat. “Dalish,” he muttered.

The man spoke then, loudly and carefully, with a lilting accent, in a voice that commanded respect in the deepest reaches of Arthur’s heart. As he spoke, three more Dalish archers crept up into sight - one in front of Alfred, two behind Arthur, all with arrows nocked and ready. Arthur turned, a mildly panicked look in his eyes.

“Templar,” the one who had stood first said. “Are you the one who, five days ago, slew two hunters of Clan Irvallan?”

At this, Arthur whipped back around, staring wide-eyed at Alfred’s back. “You  _what?_ ”

Alfred stiffened, but didn’t dare turn his back on the man. Instead, he turned his head just barely towards Arthur, keeping his shield out in front of him. “Listen, I--”

“Did you, or did you not,  _shemlen_ _?_ ” His gaze almost regal, bored right through Alfred, though it was Arthur who flinched.

“Hey, I was ambushed, alright?” Alfred snapped back, as gripped his sword tighter. “They tried to rob me!”

Arthur felt his pulse in the back of his throat. Right. The Dalish were nomads by necessity, wandering the wilds in order to keep far from human eyes - which meant that occasionally, to get by, they had to steal what they needed. That had garnered them a reputation among humans as being thieves and bandits. Arthur supposed Alfred wasn’t going to be any different.

“You admit to the murder of Elanna and Tamron Irvallan?” the first elf asked after a pause, eyebrows furrowed as his fingers tensed on his bowstring.

“...Well, I mean,” Alfred began, choosing his words slowly, “I didn’t catch their names or anything, but--”

The elf closed his eyes, and almost seemed to sigh. For a moment Arthur dared to hope that he’d had a change of heart - but when he opened them again, all Arthur saw was thinly controlled rage.

“ _Elgar’nan enaste_ ,” he murmured, lowly, a quiet prayer in the old tongue. Then he drew, and loosed an arrow faster than Arthur could blink.

Alfred had anticipated the motion, and lifted his shield to block the shot; it deflected off with a metallic sound that left Arthur momentarily stunned. As he recovered, Arthur realized (with some relief) that Alfred  _had_ to defend him; Arthur was his charge, and so it was his duty to keep him safe. But he knew just as well that Alfred, as well-trained as he seemed to be, wouldn’t be able to defend an attack from all sides. The ones behind him--

They were going to shoot him too, weren’t they?

Arthur spun around, raising his arms up instinctively to protect his face. As he did so, a terrible realization flashed through his mind - his spindly little arms would do little to block an arrow; he’d be skewered, unceremoniously, through the hands and neck, like a beetle pinned to a board. But it was too late to run. The archers were drawing their strings, releasing, and Arthur saw the bolts fly towards him, as if in slow motion. He cried out, panicked, squeezing his eyes shut; he needed something to block with, something to keep those arrows  _away_ from him--

His hands, his arms. They were like ice.

The impacts sent him stumbling, but they rang out with the sound of wood impacting something solid, not flesh and bone. Arthur gasped, breathless, opening his eyes.

Before him was a wall of freezing, magicked crystal.

In that moment, something deep within Arthur had called out frantically to the Fade, pulling it fast through the fabric of reality, shaping it around his arms and encasing them in a several-inch thick layer of ice. The arrows that would have killed him had stuck fast, and when he stumbled in a half-panic and released the spell, they dropped to the ground with hollow sounds, the ice dissolving away into nothing before his eyes. Arthur stared at his hands for a moment. No wonder they had been freezing - the wards keeping him from casting magic were gone. Had they just worn off? Or--

Time started to move normally again. The archers, stunned briefly by Arthur’s display, shook off their awe and began to nock their next arrows, leaving Arthur frantically glancing behind him. But Alfred, true to his combat training, had diligently closed the distance to the other two, aiming to overwhelm them in close-quarters; evidently, he hadn’t noticed the elves behind them, as he shot Arthur a worried look when he had the time to turn around. But he was engaged with one of the other hunters, who had drawn a sword and looked to be no small threat. Arthur was on his own.

The archers were moving in on him, deftly maneuvering through the brush as they nocked their arrows and took aim once more. Arthur put up his hands once more, barely in time - the ice formed obediently at his fingertips, down his arms like a protective sheath, and the first arrow struck with a sharp, cracking sound. The second chipped off a large chunk of ice and nicked Arthur’s wrist, drawing a startled yelp from the hapless mage as he dropped the spell hastily, stumbling back and shaking out his hand.

He gripped his wrist and looked back up at his assailants, almost desperately. Their faces were tattooed intricately, just like the first one had been, in the traditions of their people - the  _vallaslin_ , the blood writing. One looked to be younger than the other; he was lithe in comparison, his hair falling messily in front of his eyes where he’d failed to secure it. Arthur was sure he looked rather pitiful at that moment, trembling before them with his hands in front of his eyes, but they looked upon him with stony, pitiless expressions as they moved closer, preparing to fire again. The sight formed a pit in Arthur’s chest, his throat tight.

“S-stop-- stop,” Arthur managed, having finally found his voice, as he raised one hand in supplication. “Don’t shoot, I’m not your enemy, I’m--”

“Quiet, flat-ear!” one of them, the younger one, barked back in reply, freezing Arthur in his tracks. “We know your type.”

Arthur was speechless for a moment. “No,” he began again, “you don’t understand--”

“We understand your kind very well,” the other said, calmly but firmly cutting Arthur off. “You think to seek shelter with the Dalish, do you not?”

Arthur, dumbfounded, opened his mouth and said nothing.

The elf, having waited for his answer, continued. “Though it pained me once to turn away those we might’ve called brothers, Clan Irvallan can’t afford to harbor outsiders anymore.”

“But I-- I’m not an outsider,” Arthur replied, the words escaping his lips before he could stop himself.

“You are,” he said, a hint of anger seeping into his voice. “You hide in your cities, disrespect our ancient traditions, and cower in the shadows of humans. Unleashed, you would run back to your shemlen masters and beg for mercy. You, along with many others, have forgotten what it means to be Elvhen, and commit crimes against our people.” He pulled his bow up, aiming for Arthur once more. “You will find no refuge with the Dalish. You and your master  _will_ pay the price.”

 _A servant. They think I’m a servant._ Arthur found himself touching his face as the realization dawned.  _Is that what I look like?_

A part of him had harbored some desperate hope, maybe, that he’d be welcomed into the forest with open arms and be able to live freely, far from the clutches of the Circle and the Templars, from the prying eyes of humanfolk. Maybe some part of his desperate heart had even yearned for it, once. But he’d forgotten, too, why he’d never returned to the depths of the forest, even when his father had brought him hunting and it would have been simple to slip out of the tent by dark--

Arthur steeled himself. They would kill him; he couldn’t give them the chance.

He drew on that feeling of fear, of hurt, then leashed it tight, and waited. The larger elf loosed the arrow from his fingers; Arthur stared it down the length of the shaft, and, holding his hand out, made a swift flick of the wrist -- the arrow, as if deflected by some invisible force, flew off at an angle, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree nearby. Before the elf could react, Arthur turned and focused on his silhouette, pointing a finger in his direction; ice crept up his legs, encasing him where he stood, even as he struggled and cried foul.

That left the other one. Arthur spun around, only to find him much closer than Arthur had expected him to be. He was nearly upon Arthur now, and panic welled up again in Arthur’s chest as the elf snarled, pulling a hunter’s knife from the sheath on his belt and lunging at his throat.

In one desperate, last-ditch effort, Arthur drew his magic to his fingers and held his palm outward, across his face. When he felt the mounting energy arc across his hand, sending the hairs on his arm standing on end, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and threw his hand out, releasing the blast; the last thing he saw was the elf’s face, twisted with fury, the knife glinting in the flash of light as he gripped it, reeled back for the killing blow.

A deafening crack rang out. The light that streaked across Arthur’s eyelids blinded him temporarily; even when he opened his eyes and stumbled back, stunned, it was a few seconds before the world around him to come back into focus. When it did, he saw that the elf before him was no more, reduced, in an instant, to a smoldering corpse on the ground. The smell of burning flesh reached Arthur’s nostrils; he stepped back further, suddenly nauseated, his legs shaking.

The howl of horror and rage that came from the other man, still bound by ice, sent Arthur spinning around again, eyes wide with fright. “I--” he began, his voice cracking.

Cries and screams from the other side, where Alfred had been, alerted Arthur to the fact that Alfred had bested his opponents as well. That, and the fact that he came barreling back out from the brush like an angry bull, the blood spatter shining across his armor as he swiftly and professionally relieved the last man of his head. The screaming stopped.

Arthur stood there, staring, unable to move his legs. He stared as Alfred, breathing heavily, scoped the area to confirm no assailants remained, before he sheathed his sword, brushing back his hair with one bloodied glove. He tried not to look at the man’s body, which remained standing, held up by the ice, but he couldn’t bear to release the spell and have it tumble lifelessly to the ground, either. Instead, he looked down, at his open, trembling palms, his breaths shaking, uneven.

The soft, clanking footsteps told Arthur that Alfred was coming over. He didn’t look up. Alfred stopped when he reached him, but otherwise did nothing. Then Arthur closed his eyes, lowering his hands. A long, silent moment passed, save for the birds in the trees.

Finally, Arthur took a deep, unsteady breath.

“Did you really kill the hunters?” he asked quietly, opening his eyes again, but keeping them focused on the ground. “Elanna and Tamron?”

“I’m sorry,” Alfred replied, as if he grasped the gravity of what he’d done. “I had to. They attacked me and tried to kill my horse.”

Arthur said nothing.

“I lowered your wards before the fight began,” Alfred continued. “I didn’t want you to be defenseless. I didn’t think there were more behind us.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry,” he added again, for good measure.

Arthur had figured. Still, he said nothing.

“...The Dalish called you a name,” Alfred finally said, as if he’d wanted to bring it up it all along.

“Flat-ear,” Arthur replied, readily, which seemed to surprise Alfred, as he remained silent. “Yes. That’s what they call… the elves they don’t like.”

“You... asked them for shelter?” Alfred asked, uncertain.

Arthur kept his head lowered. So much had happened. A lot more, unfortunately, hadn’t.

“No,” he finally said, his voice a low murmur. “They just assumed.”

Alfred moved slightly, putting his body between Arthur and the man Arthur had killed, and gently took his hand where it hung limply at his side. Arthur was suddenly aware of the fact that Alfred’s hand was shaking too, a little.

“Alright,” Alfred said, softly. “Can you walk?”

Arthur nodded, though his body felt numb. Gently, Alfred led him by the hand down the road, away from the still-warm evidence of what he’d done. Away from a life he could never return to.

“It’s not your fault,” Alfred said.

Once, when Arthur was young, he had fantasized about running home, away from judging human eyes; they’d called him  _knife-ear_ then, and had laughed at him. Now he wasn’t sure if home even existed. If it had ever truly existed. Knife-ear, flat-ear; it didn’t really make a difference, did it? Alfred was right, Arthur supposed. Just not for the reasons he’d meant.

When they’d finally located their horse (which had run off, spooked by the initial action), Alfred had wordlessly helped Arthur into the saddle, exchanged a few more kindly words with him, then set off again, lead in hand. They’d stop in the village when they came to it; then it was only 3 days more to Kirkwall. To the Circle. He’d been taught, as a young boy, to avoid that place, to fear it all his life - but when he racked his brain about it, he realized he never really learned  _why_. He’d just accepted it as fact, and lived the rest of his life in a half-existence.

Alfred, checking back on his charge every few minutes, would occasionally flash him a small smile, or a thumbs up, and wouldn’t let up until Arthur showed signs of life, usually by rolling his eyes in exasperation. This was enough for Alfred, who would laugh softly before turning back around each time, as if mild irritation had been his goal. But Arthur knew otherwise.

Perhaps the Circle could actually be good for him, Arthur mused. A place where he belonged. A place that would accept him. Maybe he’d make it his home.

Up front, Alfred wiped the blood from his gauntlets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, if you guys know nothing about dragon age, I suggest this lore primer to start you off: https://kotaku.com/a-beginners-guide-to-all-things-dragon-age-1658487212
> 
> Lots of stuff is available on the dragon age wiki too if you're ever curious! I'm trying to keep things easy to understand even if you haven't played any of the games, but there is a lot of lore I can't touch on.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Alfred had been determined to lower the number of surprises from then on out. Too many surprises were a bad thing, he figured, and any little precaution he could take to reduce them would probably be best for them in the long run. Getting ambushed by the Dalish the first time had been a surprise, and that had been pretty bad already. Getting ambushed by them a _second_ time, with Arthur in tow, had been even worse. But by and large, what had surprised him the most in the last 24 hours or so had been the ferocity with which Arthur had struck down his assailant; the man had been reduced to ash and cinders in an instant by sheer force of will. Alfred would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t been at least a little hesitant to approach the mage after that.

Magic was powerful. It was a good thing to be reminded of that fact. It was easy to forget, especially when the wielder was as spindly and whiny a guy as Arthur was. That being said, Alfred hadn’t seen that level of raw destructive power ever before in his life - the enchanters back at the Circle tended to stick to what was on the books, he figured, and that meant toning it down a bit. Arthur, on the other hand, had lashed out with what Alfred could only assume was pure terror, and with no formal education to be had, he’d simply called on the most immediate solution his panicked brain could think up. Now, the fact that he’d actually been able to _cast_ a spell like that, and with his bare hands…

Well. Alfred was no expert. But that made Arthur pretty dangerous, didn’t it?

So he’d tightened the wards a little. Just for his peace of mind.

It was looking good, even into the fifth day or so, after they had emerged from the forests and into the plains. Past that began the mountains that separated Kirkwall from the river basin that they had been traveling in; they would have to make their way up the foothills, at which point they’d meet the mountain pass. Alfred, this time, was especially careful about avoiding trouble, not the least because of how much their previous encounter had seemed to shake Arthur - who, to his credit, had recovered quickly, and was back to his snippy self after a bath and a change of clothes, although Alfred suspected he was just putting on a tough face. But by the sixth day, as they approached the top of the pass with barely a contrary peep out of Arthur’s mouth, Alfred was starting to feel pretty good, everything considered. Sure, his feet ached to no end, and he was maybe growing desperate for a night in his own bed, but they were close, now; they’d be able to see the city as soon as they rounded the top.

It was worth all the trouble, Alfred thought. Worth all the aches and pains of walking several hundred miles while Arthur comfortably hogged the saddle (although, to his credit, he was switching places with Alfred more often now, which Alfred suspected was because he felt bad about it). What was important was that Arthur had been a catastrophe in the making with magic that powerful. Alfred would readily walk hundreds of miles over and over again if it meant keeping mages like him away from places where they could do real damage. By offering to escort Arthur back, Alfred had potentially saved tens of innocent lives. Hundreds, even! He suddenly felt like giving himself a nice pat on the back. As soon as they got back to Kirkwall and Arthur was safely and comfortably sequestered in his own little room, Alfred was heading down to the market and buying himself something nice. Probably food. He was starving.

“Hey,” said Arthur, who was currently riding the horse and had a higher view than Alfred, as they were just cresting the top. “Is that smoke?”

Alfred blinked, and looked off to the east, in the distance. There Kirkwall sat, on its high perch overlooking the sea, the spire of the city Chantry clearly visible behind its walls. Dark gray smoke was slowly rising from Hightown, the wealthier district, where the viscount ruled the city; beyond that, not much was visible. Alfred couldn’t tell if the lights in the distance were streetlamps or fires.

“Oh,” Alfred said.

“It’s not supposed to be like that, I gather?” Arthur asked, plainly.

Alfred’s mind was going a mile a minute. He’d been gone for a week and a half. A week and a half! If this was some sort of invasion, they’d have been spotted days ago, and Kirkwall wasn’t exactly indefensible - it sat on top of a cliff, and the only way up to Hightown was up the tallest damn set of stairs Alfred had ever had the misfortune to climb. But the smoke was far too distributed for it to have come from a few independent fires; this was a sacking, or the aftermath of one. A rebellion, maybe? Then where would that put the Templars?

“No, it’s not supposed to be like that,” was all Alfred could come up with.

The wind whipped up Alfred’s skirts where he stood. Behind him, Arthur crossed his arms and frowned.

“Well. Why are you just standing there with your mouth open?”

Alfred closed his mouth. He hadn’t noticed.

A moment passed; Arthur seemed to have been waiting for one of his chirpy quips. When none came, the elf sighed and decided to speak. “What are you going to do?” he asked, looking down upon Alfred from his high perch.

That was a good question. What _was_ he going to do? He wasn’t the decision maker; that was the officers’ jobs. The Templars’ strength came from dedication to the cause and the Chantry, to the unwavering faith of the rank-and-file. He did what needed to be done, when they told him to do it.

That is, he was supposed to. It wasn’t as if that had stopped him before.

“I… I’m going to go down there and see what’s going on. People might need help,” Alfred reasoned.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, even as he eased back in the saddle, seeing how Alfred eyed the reins. “You don’t sound very sure of yourself.”

“I just don’t know what to do about you,” Alfred said, scratching his head. “If there is fighting, that is. I’m supposed to keep you safe, after all.”

Arthur shook his head, then patted the empty stretch of saddle before him. “I’ll be fine; I can defend myself. I’m no damsel in distress.”

 _Could have fooled me,_ Alfred thought, but he shrugged and kept those thoughts to himself, climbing up into the saddle in front of Arthur with reins in hand. A glance back at his passenger to confirm that he was still firmly seated, and they were off, taking the narrow mountain path just as fast as Alfred deemed safe - especially with how Arthur had started clawing at Alfred’s breastplate every time they rounded a particularly sharp corner.

As they neared the city, the lack of any significant clatter in the distance told Alfred that whatever fighting had gone on had mostly died down, which eased the anxiety in his heart. Moreover, an enemy force had tried to flee the city in their direction, because Alfred kept coming across gear and parts recently ditched on the side of the road, and he didn’t recognize any of it. With that in mind, he quickened his pace towards the city, descending the steep cliff path down to the lower districts, where the Circle sat at the edge of the docks. Up ahead and fast approaching were a set of watchtowers, with a small gate closing the gap between them. That was where they usually stationed a guard or two - the same ones Alfred had “convinced” to look the other way when he’d left the city over a week prior.

He pulled up short of the gate and waited. When a Templar, decked out in full plate, stepped out of the watchtower instead of the guard he’d been expecting, Alfred could only blink in surprise. He recognized the man from the sash he wore over his breastplate; they’d bumped shoulders in the hall once or twice, and Alfred couldn’t remember his name for the life of him.

“Ser Jones,” he said, nodding.

 _Fuck._ “Ser,” Alfred replied, as confidently as possible.

To his relief, the man only nodded again, and didn’t mention it. “I wasn’t informed that we still had Templars out on field missions,” he said. Alfred’s only response was a blank stare. “We got called back, _remember_?” he added, with a deliberate, hinting tone. If a man could give a wink and a nudge from a distance with a helmet on, he was succeeding fantastically.

“I-- yeah,” Alfred replied. “Yeah, I just… got caught up in some business. What happened to the city guard?”

“Yeah. Well.” The Templar set a hand on his hip. “The Qunari decided it was as good a time as any to storm the city and steal a bunch of nobles away. It’s over now, but Knight-Commander Meredith decided to put the whole city under martial law. That means Templars at the gates.”

Alfred just about slapped his palm to his head. The _Qunari!_ Of course. They’d been in the city for years now, apparently, but they’d kept to themselves until fairly recently. Pretty menacing looking folk, with the horns and freaky religion and everything, but Alfred hadn’t been too worried about them; he’d never really run into one, after all. “Why’d they attack?” he asked, dumbfounded. Then, as soon as the man’s last sentence had caught up with him, he blinked. “Wait. Martial law? What happened to the old guards?”

“Who knows? I don’t have all the details,” the man continued. “Maker knows they don’t tell us anything anymore. Just know what I heard by word of mouth. The viscount’s dead, a bunch of nobles almost died, a large chunk of the city guard _is_ dead, and Meredith’s got an iron grip on the reins. Business as usual with that last bit, at least.”

“The _viscount’s_ dead?” Alfred said, astonished. “Shit. I was gone a _week_!”

“Don’t let the Knight-Commander hear that,” he grunted in reply, as he motioned for the gate to be opened. “Go ahead. Figure you’re just going to the Gallows anyway,” he continued, with a nod to Arthur behind him.

They made their way down into the city proper, Arthur in the back drinking the sights in. He wouldn’t have a chance to see much of it after they’d made it to the Circle, after all; knowing this, Alfred slowed their pace slightly.

“Rather cheerful name, isn’t it? The Gallows,” Arthur murmured, after a prolonged silence, seeing its towers rise up intimidatingly in the distance. “Tell me it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“It’s not,” Alfred said, turning back with a small smile, which he hoped was reassuring. “You’ll see. You’ll get to know the other mages, make yourself at home, study all kinds of cool magic… The Templars will protect you.”

Arthur hummed a quiet note of contemplation.

“I’ll come visit if it makes you feel better?”

At that, Arthur snorted. “You better not.”

“Really!” Alfred said, smiling confidently, even as they approached the stairs leading up to the Gallows’ impressive main courtyard. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred really hoped everything was going to be fine.

When they’d walked through the gate at the end of the courtyard, Alfred expected to be ignored, at worst. In that case, he’d planned to hoof it for the Knight-Corporal, Arthur in tow, and get him logged and housed as quickly and discreetly as possible. He’d weather whatever ass-beating the corporal had in mind, then get back to duty as usual, and everyone would be on their merry way. Of course, what he’d really been hoping for was the heaps and heaps of glowing praise he so rightly deserved for getting an adult apostate safely to the Circle with almost no physical coercion to be had, but that daydream had grown distant with each day of Alfred’s unexplained absence. He fully expected to be reprimanded, maybe disciplined - lightly, he hoped, in light of Arthur’s safety, but disciplined nonetheless.

He had not expected to be immediately met with a throng of Templars in full dress, helmets and all. As soon as Alfred had implied that Arthur was there to enter the Circle, they had all immediately whisked the poor mage away to Maker-knows-where, even as he’d kicked and cried out in indignance, shooting Alfred a half-bewildered, half-furious look all the while. All save one - the last had stayed to inform Alfred, curtly, that the Knight-Corporal needed to see him. Immediately.

He’d walked in to speak with the man, tentatively hopeful, and, half an hour later, walked out harrowed. Turned out the higher-ups had decided to dock his allotted ration of lyrium - the source of all his Templar tricks; the magic nullification, the wards, everything. The same ethereal blue liquid they’d fed him the day he’d turned eighteen, out of a pretty golden chalice with Andraste’s face on it - the same potion he’d been taking faithfully every day now for a year. It had made him feel limitless, unstoppable; the first time he’d downed it, he’d felt immediately as if he’d really awakened for the first time, as if the rest of his life had been spent wading through a soporific haze, unaware that he could be something more.

Now, without it, he could barely think. The fatigue, the clammy hands, those had set in almost immediately, but the fog that had descended over his brain had been both gradual and intolerable. He’d found himself forgetting little things first: his coinpurse, his papers, a letter he’d meant to deliver. By the end of the first week, he was routinely misplacing his things all over his quarters, to the point where he’d given up and let his bunkmate deal with the mess. Even the chat he’d had with the Knight-Corporal, however important it must have been, simply faded and faded until it was no more than a blur in his memories, details indecipherable. Then came the headaches, which only served to make him irritable, something he’d realized after he’d whipped around and snapped at a younger apprentice for accidentally stepping on his skirt as he’d passed in the hall; the poor thing had trembled and apologized profusely, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled away, which had only made Alfred feel worse.

But worst of all were the hunger pangs. Some part of his poor, starving mind had realized, somehow, that the lyrium was at fault for all this - that as soon as he got his normal ration back, he’d feel better, be back to his normal self. The docking had been imposed for a month; it had been two weeks, and Alfred simply could _not_ stop thinking about that Maker-damned potion. He was thirsty, parched, but water only made him feel worse. Like he remembered what he was missing out on, and his body wouldn’t let him forget it, even when he’d forgotten everything else.

It was two and a half weeks, then, when Alfred, having made a wrong turn somewhere on the lower levels, rounded a corner and ran straight into a mage scurrying hurriedly in the opposite direction, who bounced off his plate with a startled yelp. Alfred’s head throbbed.

“Watch where you’re going,” Alfred muttered, one hand clutching at his left temple. “Didn’t they teach you not to run in the...”

He trailed off as the mage in question looked up, wide eyes betraying his surprise. That surprise turned to something akin to thinly-veiled anger as Alfred slowly looked him up and down, trying to focus his eyes on a point within their current plane of existence. An elf, clutching an apprentice’s staff with both his hands, like he was leaning all his weight on it. His hair fell, unkempt, over his eyes in places - big green eyes, slightly narrowed, ringed with dark, tired circles. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pressed together, which altogether made for a rather unhappy looking scowl. Something about him was deeply familiar, but all Alfred managed was an unbecoming squint.

“ _You,_ ” the mage growled, voice dripping with malice.

Finally, it clicked. Alfred blinked as the fog receded. “Oh, Arthur!” he cried, genuinely surprised. Then, “What happened? You look awful!”

“Wh--” Arthur started, taken aback for a moment. Then the anger was back in full force. “What do you _think_ happened?! You-- you--”

Alfred stared down at Arthur as the elf stopped himself, shaking his head and making a disgusted noise.

“I what?” Alfred asked, in an exemplary show of intelligence.

“You,” Arthur began, jabbing a finger at Alfred’s breastplate, “lied to me. You _lied_ to me. You told me--”

“What?” said Alfred, who remembered doing nothing of the sort. “I didn’t--”

“You told me I would _do well_ here!” Arthur shouted, cutting him off immediately. “You-- you fed me all that _bullshit_ about the Circle being _good_ for mages, that it ‘wasn’t all that bad!’” he said, in a high-pitched mockery of Alfred’s voice. “You _knew,_ though, didn’t you? You just wanted me locked up in here and didn't care how you got it done. Didn’t matter if you lied to get me to come with you. You just needed to get me away from--”

At that point, Arthur’s voice cracked, and the rest of his sentence came out as a ragged sigh.

“Arthur,” Alfred said, as delicately as he could manage with how his headache throbbed furiously in his skull. “I really, _one-hundred-percent,_ do not know what you’re talking about.”

Arthur seemed, for a moment, as if he would spontaneously burst into flame on the spot, and that would be that. But he closed his eyes, hand shaking where he gripped his staff, and seemed to steady himself. He breathed in, out, and then spoke again.

“You cannot seriously tell me that you didn’t know anything,” he replied, low and deliberate, staring at the sword emblazoned on Alfred’s chest. “Everything you told me was to get me to come with you. To get me to come here. And I-- I _believed_ you. I really thought…”

He shook his head again, disgusted, but seemed to will himself to continue. “You said I’d get to know the other apprentices; I haven’t seen another mage since the day you brought me here. You said I’d learn magic; I have to _ask_ to be let out of my cell, let alone long enough to learn _anything!_

“You told me the Templars would protect me,” he continued, unable to look Alfred in the eyes. “But ever since I’ve gotten here, they...”

The gears in Alfred’s brain had been turning, bit by bit, and he furrowed his brow in turn, looking upon Arthur with a half-confused, half-concerned expression. Their eyes met when Arthur looked back up, his breathing uneven; he saw how Alfred looked at him as one would look at a limping bird, and the vitriol drained out of his expression, if only slightly. A moment passed.

“Please,” Arthur mumbled. “Please don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

Alfred had no idea how Arthur would react if he told him the truth, which was that he didn’t, so he kept his mouth shut and tried to look sorry. At that, Arthur sighed, exasperated, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Maker. You really don’t know, do you? Either that, or you’re just really good at lying, and I don’t know which…”

“Arthur,” Alfred said, causing the mage to look back up at him, his eyes shaded under his palm. “What happened to you?”

“What didn’t?" Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hand back down. "When you brought me in, the Templars grabbed me, locked me up, and took my stuff!” He glanced away, sighing. “They threw me in a cell and took my blood away in a vial. That’s--”

“It’s for the phylactery,” Alfred said, by memory. “All the mages have one made.”

“So you knew after all?” Arthur asked, bitterly.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Alfred mumbled, feeling as if he suddenly had something to apologize for. “I thought they’d let me do it. I was going to explain.”

“Maybe it would have gone better, then,” Arthur muttered. “You know what they did? They tied me to a chair and bled my palm with a dirty old shiv. Didn’t tell me anything - not even when I was screaming bloody murder, thinking they were going to kill me. Just called me _mage_ and told me to quiet down, or they’d ‘make me sorry.’”

Alfred’s frown only deepened; he noticed for the first time the way Arthur held his hands lightly, the way his skin yellowed near the wrist to suggest heavy bruising, days old. “Why would they…?”

“Who knows? Neither of us, apparently! They _threatened_ me when I tried to ask. They said if they ever found me trying to run, they’d--”

Abruptly, Arthur stopped, choked, as if the words were impossible to say. He looked away again, only continuing after a moment.

“...If I ever made it out, they’d use my blood to find me. Then they’d kill me. You knew _that_ , didn’t you?”

So Alfred had - it was necessary, rarely, when mages escaped and lives were at risk - but something struck him as odd. He’d never participated in the creation of a phylactery before, and wasn’t familiar with the exact rite, but he was fairly certain it didn’t involve threats and violence. The dangerous ones, the ones that fought back tooth and nail, they got the strict treatment, Alfred supposed, from what he'd heard in and around the Circle. But Arthur had been in his care for over a week, and despite his attitude, had never given Alfred any reason to assume he was more malicious than his nature made him. He worried his lip with his teeth.

The Templars were the protectors of the weak, the champions of the just. Alfred had looked around him at his knighting, and only seen good men. Ones who had left their families behind in the name of the Chant and the good works it taught.

“It doesn’t sound right to me,” he mumbled, unsure. His head hurt.

Arthur hesitated a moment, and Alfred didn’t know if that expression on his face was one of confusion or disgust.

“You saw them drag me away. You didn’t do anything.” His tone was uncertain, as if he hadn’t wanted to believe it himself.

“Knight-Corporal wanted to talk to me,” Alfred offered. “I couldn’t tell him no.”

“I was alone,” Arthur muttered. “Two weeks. You didn’t come.”

Alfred opened his mouth before he realized Arthur was right - he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he…? He’d wanted to. He remembered the whole situation giving him a bad feeling - but the days after that were a blur, and Alfred had no idea why he hadn’t followed up. He pressed his fingers to his temples, grimacing; he was thirsty…

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Arthur looking at him strangely, as if he had something stuck in his teeth. Alfred nearly made to ask what he was looking at when the sound of armored footsteps echoed in from the end of the hall; Arthur immediately turned, blanching.

“I’ve got to go,” Arthur said, quickly, not giving Alfred any time to respond. He shoved past him and took off as fast as he could run - which wasn’t very, with how the robes were cut tightly around his ankles. As Alfred watched, he quickly disappeared down a side corridor, leaving Alfred standing there, bewildered and not just a little bit uneasy.

The footsteps rounded the corner: an older, bearded, balding Templar of higher rank, who Alfred recognized, thronged by two others he did not.

“Knight-Lieutenant,” Alfred saluted obediently as the man passed. He stopped for a moment, seemed to consider, and turned to address Alfred back.

“Ser Jones, was it?” he said, to which Alfred gave a single, short nod. “Yes. I’m looking for a particularly pesky mage. Elf, blonde, eyebrows like caterpillars. Seen him?”

Alfred blinked. He thought of the bruises, the way Arthur had leaned against his staff like he wouldn’t have been standing otherwise.

“Well? Out with it.”

“Ser,” Alfred stammered. “No, ser. I haven’t seen him.”

“That’s Ser _Alrik_ to you,” he corrected sternly. “What’s the matter with you, boy?”

Alfred flinched. “Ser Alrik. They have me on docked rations, ser.”

He only shook his head. “Best you learned your lesson then, hm? You two,” he said harshly, addressing the two Templars that had been following him. “See if he isn’t in his cell. Let Karras know if he is.”

The two saluted sharply, then proceeded down the same way Arthur had gone, leaving Alfred to watch curiously at their receding silhouettes, unease bubbling up in his stomach. The lieutenant had stayed; he’d folded his arms, waiting for Alfred to turn his attention back to him.

“You were speaking to someone in the hall,” Ser Alrik said, leaning forward just enough to make Alfred uncomfortable. “Who was it?”

“A… a passing guard,” Alfred mumbled, realizing only after he’d said it that he’d committed to lying to his superior with barely a moment’s hesitation.

“Was it now? What are you doing down here, Jones? Your post is up on the higher floors, isn’t it?”

Alfred didn’t answer immediately; he’d forgotten the reason, too. “I… think I got lost,” he answered, truthfully, after a long pause.

Ser Alrik stood back with a sigh. For a dreadful moment, it seemed as if he’d figured something out, even if Alfred didn’t know what.

Instead, he clapped Alfred on the upper arm. “You’re a mess, boy,” he said, smoothly. “Go rest up. Docked rations will ruin the best of us. Don’t give me a reason to write you up again.”

When he let Alfred go with a nod, Alfred stammered a thanks and hurried off, occupying himself quickly with trying to find the way back out to the courtyard. There were so many corridors down here. Why had he even been here in the first place? Damn place needed a map badly. His head hurt again.

By the time he finally found his way out, the unrest in his heart had already waned away, leaving only a tiny, nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was terribly not right. Then the pounding in his skull started anew, and he gritted his teeth, beginning the half-lucid stumble back up to his post; he’d deal with it later, Alfred reasoned, when he was better equipped to do so.

Even if he couldn’t quite remember what was so wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually not that happy with this chapter. I kept putting off posting it to edit it some more... and then some more...
> 
> Thanks for continuing to follow this story y'all. Questions are welcome because I'm not sure how much of this is comprehensible if you don't know any lore. Yeehaw


	5. From the logs of the Knights Templar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intermission!!! Character notes!!!! I love writing useless trivia
> 
> Formatting is... how you say... fucked up. maybee fix later. big word hard

Alfred Jones

_In between the first and last names is a hastily written "F"._

Birthday: 4th Solace, 9:16 Dragon

 

Notes:

A new recruit of exceptional talent. Hails from the hinterlands of Ferelden. Son of the honorable Knight-Commander Jones, of the Ostwick Circle.

Recruit's instructors maintain that he was a troublesome child, yet excelled in his studies and performed well under duress. Often motivated his peers to work harder; would do well in group deployments.

Remains idealistic. Has expressed the desire to avoid conflict if possible. Officers note that, recently, upon being ordered to execute an apprentice who had failed her Harrowing, he hesitated, and only did as told when pressed. Lack of obedience may prove to be problematic. Further training recommended.

 

* * *

  

No, Knight-Lieutenant. I will defer to your judgement on many things, but no matter how many times you ask, the answer is no. I will not be authorizing the transfer of Ser Jones to Ser Alrik's unit. That is final!

I will take some time to diminish your doubts. If Ser Jones really is "stagnating" under my watch, as you say, then you should come down to the barracks during training hours. I have never seen anyone so stubbornly motivated to improve. He does not stop until bested by one of his colleagues; then he takes to drilling forms until he is satisfied with his improvement. That, Knight-Lieutenant, is a mark of excellence. You would know if you were ever here to see it.

If you are concerned about his ideals, as you say, then have a talk with the kid yourself. For better or worse, he is genuine to the bone. You will understand, then, when I say that being under Ser Alrik's command would crush him.

I am tired of seeing good men lose faith in the cause. Do not turn Ser Jones into another one.

\- Knight Corporal Beilschmidt

 

Arthur Kirkland is a noble of moderate standing in the city of Tantervale, in the northern Marches. It is near impossible for elves like him to gain any sort of social rank in human society; his position attests, in part, to the tireless campaigning of his adopted father, though many do not recognize his status still. Indeed, he is widely known on the streets only as Lord Kirkland’s son; many hesitate to refer to him by his proper, courtesy title outside of his father’s company.

Despite the tenuous acceptance of the general public, however, one would be hard-pressed to say that the young man has not adapted well to higher society. He manages his father’s duties quite adeptly, and even takes on them himself from time to time, whether it be conducting negotiations or organizing pleasure trips. In his free time, he is often seen with Comte Bonnefoy, a good friend of his - though the man would deny it himself, it seems.

His disappearance has been the talk of higher society for weeks. Some wonder if the elf simply tired of human society; others whisper of his clandestine affair with a Templar knight, and how the two quit town, hand in hand.

_Beneath is scrawled a short note in a messy hand. It reads, “NOT TRUE!!!”_

 

* * *

 

Am I to understand that you believe he ran off because he is secretly Dalish? He is anything but, my dear; those pasty cheeks are as bare as my mistress’s bottom, and you know how those Dalish like their tattoos. Besides, he has told me many a time exactly how he feels about the “wood elves”, and none of it is positive. No, I know for a fact that the Templars took him - and the Templars do not simply abduct people for any reason beyond possession of magic.

He is a good man, I’ll have you know. –No, perhaps good is a bit too much. But he is an entertaining drinking companion, if it makes any difference. I will mislike it, I think, if he never returns home from Maker-knows-where the Templars have brought him.

I would know what they have done with Arthur. If you see him, tell him I am saving him his seat at the tavern.

_\- A letter from Comte Francis Bonnefoy in Tantervale to a Chantry official in Kirkwall, intercepted by Templars upon arrival_

 

Gilbert Beilschmidt

Birthday: 18th Wintermatch, 9:13 Dragon

 

Notes:

Knight-Corporal Beilschmidt. Hails from Cumberland, in Nevarra. Currently in command of about 10 to 15 men, including new recruits.

Ser Beilschmidt has served the Order for slightly upwards of 3 years. Morale among his recruits is high. However, his peers have reported upon their poor performance, and of their general lack of comradery with the greater Order. Recommend selecting recruits of merit to be moved into higher performing units.

Ser Beilschmidt was once a recruit of notable talent himself. Records state he was promoted to Knight-Lieutenant within his second year with the Order. Shortly after, he was demoted from that rank due to insubordination and improper management.

 

 

 

 

Comte Francis Bonnefoy hails from House Bonnefoy, an Orlesian noble family that once held land near Val Chevin; most of the members of the household fled to the Free Marches following a scandal that erupted and became violent. Though the family’s land remains, and the Council of Heralds has not yet addressed their noble status, they are unwilling to return to Orlais for fear of bloodshed - or worse, social disgrace.

The only son of the older Bonnefoy, the comte inherited his title upon his father’s passing, though it appears he is loath to do much beyond loiter around Tantervale’s higher districts and attend parties (which he is frequently seen leaving early, with at least one girl). He is often seen with the _other_ young outcast noble of Tantervale, Arthur Kirkland.

Despite the fact that returning to Orlesian higher society would most likely spell the end for House Bonnefoy, many members of the family are still adept players of The Grand Game - the scheming politics unique to Orlesian nobility. Though this often puts them at odds with Tantervale’s more conservative upper class, Francis is no exception. The only thing he won’t do is wear a mask – he is, reportedly, “too beautiful for them”.


End file.
